


Midpoint

by ottermo



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk Bellamy, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottermo/pseuds/ottermo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Drink this. It's just water," she added, when he looked at the contents suspiciously. "It'll make you feel better."</p><p>"That's what Miller said about his stupid whiskey," Bellamy remarked, and he suddenly sounded miserable. "But it did nooooot work."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midpoint

 

It was late; late enough for Clarke to be in her pyjamas and starting to think about making one last hot chocolate before bed. Since the trainwreck that had been her and Finn, she hadn't felt much like going out in the evenings, despite the endless string of invitations from Octavia, Raven and the boys ("Invitations" might be the wrong word in the case of Octavia - "demands" was closer, not that it made a difference to her replies).  
  
Tonight, though, Octavia hadn't called, hadn't even texted. Clarke was glad, in a way - she didn't like to be a downer. A few times her friends had forgone their normal Friday night of unofficial drinking at The Phoenix and come to hang at her apartment with her instead, which had been really great, but she couldn't expect that every week. She was comfortable keeping herself company - being an only child had definite upsides - and there was always Wells, when she felt lonely. The two of them had taken to live-texting each other through episodes of their new favourite TV show: a teen action/adventure serial whose pacing took no prisoners, with a dreamy anti-hero Wells was always teasing Clarke for having a crush on. It wasn't the same as having him next to her on the sofa, like when they were kids, but it was better than nothing.  
  
This week's episode was drawing to a close, and Wells had just texted her his predictions for the last segment, when Clarke heard the first sharp knock at her apartment door. She frowned, and hit pause on the remote. Before she could make it to the door, the knock had sounded a further five times, in a sort of staccato rhythm-that-wasn't.  
  
She wasn't nervous, exactly - hers was a pretty safe building in a nice neighbourhood, and it seemed unlikely that someone with criminal intentions would a) choose the fourth apartment on the eighth floor to start with, or b) knock first. But it did seem strange - none of her friends had ever knocked like that, and while it wasn't hideously late, it seemed an odd time for someone to drop in.  
  
The knocks came again, in quick succession, and Clarke opened the door, only to be nearly knocked off her feet by the force of her visitor falling straight through the doorway. He must have been leaning against the door, and was now sprawled across her hallway: six feet, five inches of a tousled and apparently fairly drunk Bellamy Blake.  
  
For a moment Clarke stared down at him, not sure what to do. Her friendship with Bellamy - argumentative, cocky Bellamy who had initially made no secret of his dislike for people who came from the kind of families Clarke came from - had only just emerged from the dark depths of mutual irritation to take its first few faltering steps, and while she liked him okay, she wouldn't really say they were close.  
  
Still, he was here, and she either had to find a way of making him not be, or try and get some sense out of him. In the end, though, he spoke first.  
  
"Princess," he slurred, "your dumb floor is too close to my face."  
  
"Well, you're not wrong," Clarke admitted, and made an attempt to pull him up, though it was hard when he was lying face down in a hallway that was not really long enough for much manoeuvring. "Can you walk?"  
  
Bellamy let out a sudden laugh. "Walk!" He pushed up with his arms and vaguely got onto all fours, before unsteadily getting to his feet as if standing was an entirely new experience. "I can absoluuutely walk."  
  
Clarke had her doubts about that, so she took his arm and led him through to the lounge, switching off the TV as she passed it. Depositing the swaying Bellamy on the couch, she picked up her phone and speed-texted Wells on her way to the kitchen: _sorry, somebody stopped by. finish this one without me, I'll catch up later x_  
  
She filled a large jug with cold water, and grabbed a couple of glasses. She had no idea how much liquor it would take to transform the aloof, seemingly invincible Bellamy Blake into the floppy, dazed creature who was now in her apartment, but she figured it must be a lot. Clarke had seen him put away beer after beer on the occasions when he'd joined them at the Phoenix, usually egged on by Murphy and Miller, and all that ever happened was he got a bit louder and even more arrogant. This was new, and she briefly reviewed what she could remember about alcohol poisoning - but Bellamy didn't seem to be breathing erratically and she'd have definitely noticed if he was vomiting over her couch - maybe this was just what happened when he was really, properly _drunk_. At least it would be a learning experience.  
  
She nudged the coffee table closer to the couch with one foot, and set the jug and glasses down. Pouring the cool liquid into the glass nearest Bellamy, she said, "So you had a lot to drink, huh?"  
  
He had the grace to look a little sheepish. "A _big_ lot."  
  
Clarke handed him the full glass. "Drink this. It's just water," she added when he looked at the contents suspiciously. "It'll make you feel better."  
  
"That's what Miller said about his stupid whiskey," Bellamy remarked, and he suddenly sounded miserable. "But it did nooooot work."  
  
"This will," Clarke said firmly, glad to see him start to drink it. She'd only gotten properly drunk once in her life - with Raven, a couple of days after the Finn debacle - and all she could really remember of it was the pints of water Monty had forced them to drink after they'd both thrown up all over his floor. She thought about calling Monty now, because he was good at this kind of thing, but part of her was just hoping she could get this encounter out of the way and get Bellamy home without involving anyone else in the memory.  
  
She let him drink in silence for a bit, and then tried, "Why did Miller say the whiskey would make you feel better?"  
  
Bellamy scoffed, as if it should have been obvious. "Because Miller's an idiot."  
  
"Okay," Clarke acknowledged, "we've covered the fact that he was wrong, but why did he think you needed to be made to feel better? Was something up?" She was sure Octavia would have mentioned anything major that had happened, but then again, it had been a few days since they'd properly talked. She didn't really want to hear any more about how happy Lincoln made her friend, much as she liked the guy, having entered the 'unreasonable bitterness' phase of the post-breakup process. But maybe she should have called O after all.  
  
Bellamy was tilting the half-empty glass from side to side, making the water slosh around in a circular motion. "Because I was sad, obviously," he said by way of explanation.  
  
Clarke didn't really know what to say, having spent most of the time she'd known Bellamy basically assuming he didn't have much in the way of emotions. Harsh of her, probably, but the guy didn't exactly give off sensitive vibes.  
  
"And d'you want to tell me about why you were sad?" she asked, wondering what she was going to offer in the way of comfort if he did choose to tell her. She didn't want to see him like this, but any problem that could fell the great Bellamy Blake was surely beyond her powers, too.  
  
"Nooooope, I want to drink water," he said decisively, taking another large gulp. Clarke immediately felt guilty for being relieved he wasn't going to open up any further. She swiped her phone screen past Wells' reply and typed Miller's name into the recipient box. _d_ _o you have any info on what's up with bellamy?_ she typed, before pouring a second glass of water from the jug.  
  
Bellamy drank it in one go, all but dropping the glass back on the table when he was done. Clarke watched him, wondering if she was supposed to ask him anything else or if she'd unlock Angry Bellamy by trying.  
  
Before she could decide, he had gotten to his feet and announced, "I know where the bathroom is," and Clarke congratulated him on the piece of intel, before guiding him back in the opposite (correct) direction. Deciding (or at least hoping really hard) he would probably be okay in the bathroom without her help, Clarke reached for her phone, which had buzzed twice. Both messages were from Miller. The first read _thank god, is he with you? sorry. you can bring him back if you want, we're at phoenix. or we can come and get him._ She swiped to read the second: _&  to answer your question, we think he's just cut up about his mom. maybe her birthday?_  
  
Clarke found herself frowning at the word "just" - she didn't know every last detail, but she was fairly sure there was nothing "just" about what had happened with Octavia and Bellamy's mother, in either sense of the word. She got what Miller meant, though: it wasn't anything new and terrible to worry about, just the familiar pain of the past getting Bellamy down. It did seem likely that there was something different this time, though, because this was definitely the first time the echoes had brought Bellamy - weirdly vulnerable, sad Bellamy - to _her_ door, of all places.  
  
Hearing the bathroom door slam and the sound of Bellamy shuffling back towards the lounge, Clarke tapped out a quick reply to Miller, _ok, it's fine, i'll keep him._ She didn't particularly _want_ to keep him, but she certainly wasn't going to hand him back to Miller if his idea of helping out was just to keep handing him more and more alcohol.  
  
Not that she had a much more stellar plan up her sleeve.  
  
She mentally berated herself for not having memorised Aurora Blake's birthday. She knew the date of her death -  April 23rd - but it hadn't occurred to her to look out for what had to be the second hardest day of the year for Octavia and Bellamy. No wonder Octavia hadn't called or spoken to her. She was probably upset Clarke hadn't tried to reach out first. Clarke could only hope that Jasper and Monty hadn't been so irresponsible.  
  
Bellamy opened the door of the lounge and crossed the room to the couch, dropping down onto it from a standing position as if the concept of 'sitting' had not occurred to him (which it probably hadn't). He ended up half-lying across the seat, diagonally. Clarke came to sit next to him, not too close, but not too far either.  
  
She said it as matter-of-factly as she could manage. "I'm sorry about your mom."  
  
Bellamy didn't even twitch, just poured another glass of water and downed it. She started to wonder if he'd even heard what she'd said.  
  
She scanned through her list of Comforting Phrases, trying to remember which, if any, had had any positive effect on her after her dad had passed away. The thing about the stock "I'm here for you" and "any time you want to talk" was that they seemed to do a lot more for the peace of mind of the speaker than the person they were speaking to. "I know how you feel" might actually apply, at least in part, since they'd both lost a parent - but under such different circumstances that Clarke would never presume to say those words.  
  
She decided to chance asking him the question that wouldn't leave her alone. "Bellamy...why did you come to see me?"  
  
He didn't answer at first, and she found herself filling the silence. "I'm not saying you shouldn't have," she said hurriedly, "because really I'm glad you did, I don't think you should be alone tonight, and I'm really sorry I didn't remember for you and O. But what made you come...here?"  
  
He sat up straight suddenly, making Clarke jump a little after all his drowsy movement so far. He seemed to think better of it too, taking a moment for his head to stop spinning before flailing an accusatory hand in her direction. "You _know_." he stated.  
  
Clarke was about to protest that she really didn't, but apparently he wasn't done. "You know what it's like. Your dad." The words were still slurred, but seemed to carry a little more of his usual conviction than anything else he'd said since arriving. "But you, you're...you carry on and you don't even _care_."  
  
Clarke was surprised to find herself having to hold back angry tears of hurt. It was true that she didn't show an awful lot of emotion when it came to the subject of her father. She'd managed to close off from it enough that she could talk about him quite openly without getting upset straight away, and very few conversations nowadays, three years on, dug deep enough to reduce her to a sobbing mess. She'd developed defences, knew how to distract herself from the subject because if she started crying, she'd probably never stop. So for him to imply that she didn't care struck a painful chord, even though she knew he wasn't thinking straight. "You don't mean that," she said tightly.  
  
Bellamy waved a hand, still without looking at her. "Probably I don't," he agreed, "I'm really drunk right now. But how do you do that, princess. That thing where you...don't think about it."  
  
She shifted a little closer to him, and said softly, "Bellamy, I think about it all the time. I never stop wishing it hadn't happened. I'm a total mess some days, you just don't see me because I stay home." Again, she couldn't be sure he was really listening, but finally she could think of some words so she thought she might as well use them. "You can't be strong about it all the time, it doesn't work. You have to have some days where you just...let yourself be sad."  
  
He groaned and buried his face in his hands. Clarke's instinct was to wrap an arm around his shoulder and pull him closer to her, but she hesitated because....well. It was _Bellamy_.  
  
Still...he probably wasn't going to remember any of this in the morning.  
  
He didn't tense up when she touched him, like she'd imagined he would. With the exception of the steady flow of no-strings girlfriends, she'd never seen him be affectionate with anybody except Octavia. He usually acted like his personal space was an impenetrable temple, unless he was yelling at somebody at close quarters. Right now, though, he more or less crumpled into her, and Clarke tried not to think about how surreal the situation was. She'd sworn at him for laughing at her parking skills last week, and she'd meant the words wholeheartedly. Now she was just thankful he wasn't crying on her, because there was no way she could cope with that.  
  
The next words were his, and muffled against Clarke's shoulder. "It's not her birthday."  
  
Clarke let out a small "oh", and moved the hand that was on his back in what she hoped was a comforting motion. Personally she'd always found the whole circles thing a bit weird and tingly, but there had to be a reason why everyone else thought it was soothing. So Miller's guess had been wrong, that was okay. Bellamy was allowed to miss his mom on any day of the year, maybe it was even healthier not to confine it to certain occasions. And at least it meant she hadn't forgotten Octavia in her hour of need after all. She was jolted out of the thought by Bellamy speaking again.  
  
"Ten years and three months and twenty-six days," he said. He sounded a fraction more sober, but the words were still said deliberately, as if choosing them was an effort. "I don't keep count usually. But when mom died I was ten years and three months and twenty-six days old."  
  
Clarke winced inwardly as she figured out where he was going with this. "And today..."  
  
"And today it has been ten years and three months and twenty-six days since she died." There was a noise that might have been a strangled sob, but he held it together. "Starting  tomorrow... I'll always have lived longer without her than I ever did _with_ her."  
  
Clarke closed her eyes for a second, couldn't believe the clarity with which he stated such a heartbreakingly simple fact. She'd never even considered such a mathematical way of looking at loss, but hell. Clarke would be thirty-two by the time she'd lived half her life without her dad. Having always thought of Bellamy as Octavia's _older_ brother, she'd hadn't really stopped to remember that he was so young himself. That  tonight he'd been trying to drink away grief over his carefully-counted landmark before he was legally even old enough to do so.  
  
"She would be so proud of you," she whispered after a long pause, the change in volume brought on more by trying not to cry than anything else. "Everything you've done for Octavia. She'd be so proud."  
  
She hoped it didn't sound as cliché outside as it did inside her head, because she meant it so sincerely. She had no idea what Bellamy believed about death, and had never seriously entertained the thought that her father was watching her from heaven or anything like that - but she felt sure that if such things could exist, Aurora Blake would be prouder than proud of the way her son and daughter had survived and pulled each other through.  
  
Bellamy didn't reply, and Clarke leaned gently back so they were both resting against the couch cushions.  
  
"D'you really think so?" he asked her quietly, and he was back to the slower speech from before, the interlude of apparent sobriety having ended when he'd run out of memorised numbers and reasons. She imagined him counting down the days these last few weeks, and felt a twinge of regret that she hadn't noticed. That nobody had noticed.  
  
"I know so," she told him. "One hundred percent."  
  
He said nothing, just shifted slightly. His breathing was more even now, and she found herself humming snatches of a tune she couldn't name as they sat there in the yellow light of her sitting room lamp. The window showed a pitch black sky, and only faint sounds of a city falling asleep could reach them.   
  
"You're sleeping here tonight," she said after a while, softly but leaving no room for disagreement. "You can have the bed."  
  
"No, you can," he countered, and she felt the corners of her mouth quirk into a grin, because at least he was feeling enough like himself to argue a little bit.  
  
"No, you."

She could hear the tiredness in her own voice, and wasn't surprised when his response of "you, princess," was little more than a yawn.  
  
Something told her neither of them were going to move in any case, so she let him have the last word. Just this once.   
  
She leaned a tiny bit to her left so she could reach one of her folded blankets, and spread it over them both as best she could. While she was stretching out her arm, she found her phone as well, and saw that Miller had texted again. _how's he doing?_  
  
Clarke glanced at the head of black curls that was now resting on her shoulder. She was pleased to find that she more or less believed the words she typed back in reply.  
  
_I think he's going to be okay_.

 

 


End file.
